


Bless Thee, and Keep Thee

by telm_393



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blindness, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telm_393/pseuds/telm_393
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock is a sixteen year old runaway, and no matter what brings him down, he always gets up and keeps going. Until he finds a person he might want to get to know, and a place where he might want to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Objects in Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for this (http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=34005#cmt34005) prompt on the kink meme. It took on a life of its own.
> 
> The title is from the King James Bible version of Numbers 6:24-26. ("The Lord bless thee, and keep thee:/The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee:/The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.")

Matt’s a nice young man, a quiet young man, a handsome young man (or so he’s told), a model inhabitant of St. Agnes ever since Stick left him and he had to find his way back there with nothing but a cane and senses confused by grief.

Matt’s sixteen years old now and nobody knows that sometimes he trains by himself, hones all of the skills Stick taught him because he spent years of his life with that man, with his skin perpetually bruised and his muscles strained and his bones fractured, and he’s not going to let himself get lazy. He’s not going to let himself get complacent.

He’s docile, though. Agreeable Matthew Murdock, that’s him. Agreeable about bedtimes and curfews and the way the other kids spit cruel words at him and shove him into walls. That’s how he keeps himself from actually getting hurt, or from hurting somebody else. He’s obedient, and people don’t notice him except to target him for their silly games, but they get bored after a while because he doesn’t fight back and their fists don’t hurt, he’s hurt so much worse before.

(Murdock boys can take a beating.)

So Matt’s docile, and he’s invisible, and he’s aware.

He’s always aware, except for when he sleeps, and that’s why Matt tries not to sleep too often. When he sleeps, he has nightmares. When he has nightmares, he screams.

When he screams, he wakes people up.

When people get woken up in the middle of the night, they’re not happy.

Matt doesn’t want to be noticed. Not for reasons like that. Not for anything, really.

If people are noticing him, if _lots_ of people are noticing him, it’s harder to exist as he is, harder to just let himself read or rest or breathe.

Besides, he doesn’t like it when he makes other people unhappy. If other people are unhappy they’re more likely to be angry. Matt isn’t a fan of angry people. He’s been around them his whole life, but now when people yell at him or at others he feels a sharp edge of panic, of _something terrible is going to happen and I have to stop it._ Besides, when he makes other people unhappy, even when it’s not anger, the guilt threatens to eat through his body and splinter his bones.

Matt doesn’t want people to get hurt, so of course he doesn’t want to hurt people, doesn’t even want to inconvenience them in any way.

Matt’s not afraid of other people, not exactly. He’s afraid of the infinite number of ways other people can hurt him, and the infinite number of ways that he cannot hurt them back, not even if he wants to. He can only hurt back the people who really deserve it, and the people who really deserve it aren’t the ones who use younger kids (or Matt himself) as punching bags, though Matt will certainly step in, will say, “If you do anything else I’ll call one of the sisters.”

(If it’s him he’ll just wait until they get tired. He doesn’t care enough to make them stop. It doesn’t really hurt, it doesn't really hurt, it doesn't really hurt.)

The people who really deserve it are bad people. Evil people, the people who do the kind of things those that killed his dad did.

So really, in the end Matt’s afraid _for_ other people. There are people out there who aren’t as good at defending themselves as Matt is. Some of them aren’t particularly nice to him. Actually, not many of them are particularly nice to him. Matt still worries for them, because other people are his responsibility, or they should be.

He hears them being sick, hears them crying and panicking, and he can’t do anything about it because he can’t think of anything to do.

He can’t just beat away people’s demons, just like he can’t beat away his own (the ones he swears to himself he doesn’t have, but who’s he kidding, he’s got the devil inside of him).

And he’s still not sure if he can just beat other people, no matter how bad they are. He has to defend people who are getting hurt, though, who are _really_ getting hurt, more than just a bruise here and there because as much as he hates to say it the kids at St. Agnes are all used to that.

He has a responsibility, and someday when he’s not so constrained by the walls of this godforsaken place, when it isn’t so easy to get noticed, he’ll defend people like he’s supposed to.

He’s a Murdock boy.

He can sure take a beating, and he can sure give one.

(God is merciful, but the Devil has a hell of a right hook.)

+

Matt’s tired of this place. He’s tired of the other people around him, of the way the walls close around him and all the rules.

He’s been sixteen for a month, and he made a deal with himself when he came back here.

He told himself that at sixteen he’d get out of dodge, he’d make a life for himself outside of St. Agnes, far away from the sharp voices of the sisters and the monotonously mean words of the other children.

(He’s not a child anymore. He hasn’t been one for a very long time. In fact, he doesn’t know if he even remembers ever being one.)

Far away from the people who take away his cane—and he can get around without it most of the time, especially since he knows the layout of St. Agnes by now, but it doesn’t mean he _wants_ to, it doesn’t mean it’s _easy_ —for kicks and who break his sunglasses and make fun of him for not knowing what’s written on signs or…well, he wants to go far away from the people who think that they’re better than him because he can’t see.

He’ll show them.

Someday he’s going to be a lawyer. Someday he’s going to defend people who need defending. Someday.

(Maybe in another world.)

But for now he’s going to leave St. Agnes, he’s going to take on the world, he’s going to make it.

(He’s an idiot, he knows it, but he pretends not to. He tells himself he’ll get by, he’ll get a job, but he knows no one’s going to hire a blind sixteen year old and he’s going to end up dying young and dying on the streets, but honestly he doesn’t mind that much. He wouldn’t have any money for college even if he stayed at St. Agnes, and if he leaves he can at least escape the suffocation, the muffled agony of the orphanage. He needs that. A year or two of freedom sounds good. Maybe he can even use his skills for some good before he’s brought down.)

Honestly, Matt mostly runs away from St. Agnes because nobody thinks he’s going to run away, and there’s this pulsing angry feeling inside of him that says, _I’ll show you._

_I’ll show you what Matthew Murdock can do._

+

Matt leaves at night. Most people in the building are asleep, and he’s able to step around those who aren’t very quickly.

He steps lightly, opens the back door as quietly as he can, and he feels a breeze hit his skin.

Good.

There’s a wall, he knows it. He’s run his fingers over it more than once. It’s brick, and it’s old, and he’s sure he’ll be able to climb it like it’s nothing.

He had some cash, has been stealing money for years, a dollar here and there from the nuns or the kids he doesn’t particularly like. He knows it’s a sin, but he thinks God will forgive him for this at least. He thinks that God will understand his need for freedom, his restlessness, his loneliness.

He doesn’t think about the loneliness, though, because he’s going to be lonely for the rest of his short, short life. It’s better than getting close to people, though. People leave, they always leave.

They’re there, and then there’s only the memory of heat where their body used to be.

Matt climbs up the brick wall just as easily as he thought he’d be able to, finding footholds and handholds and moving with a grace that he knows people think he shouldn't have. He’s gotten tall enough to reach handholds that he has to stretch for, has gotten almost as tall as he’s going to be when he’s fully grown, most likely. He’s growing into himself, he’s been told. He’s pretty good-looking. He’s heard people talking about it.

(Sometimes he runs his hands over his face, tries to make a picture of what he looks like now in his head. Sharper cheekbones, fuller lips. He still can’t quite fathom how much he’s changed since the last time he could see himself in the mirror.)

Matt gets to the top of the wall and almost yells when his hand grips something sharp. He gasps in pain instead and withdraws his hand, almost tumbling to the ground.

Barbed wire.

 _Damn it_ , he didn’t consider barbed wire.

His hand is bleeding. This can’t be good. The barbed wire can’t be clean.

Matt hoists himself up so that he can feel around the top of the wall. It’s pretty wide. The barbed wire doesn’t cover it completely.

Matt takes a deep breath and decides to get it over with, like ripping off a Band-Aid. He’s gotten this far, and he never gives up.

He throws his duffel bag over the wall and listens to it thump against the ground.

Matt tries his best to put his hands somewhere behind the barbed wire—his skin still gets stuck and tears on some sharp points, but he expected that—and he hoists himself onto the top of the wall.

Below him, he’s fairly sure there’s only ground. No people, no objects to get in his way. Good.

He climbs down the other side of the wall as fast as he can, and then he’s home free. His hands are cut up and bleeding, especially the one that got a handful of barbed wire, but he just rubs his hands on his jeans to wipe off the blood and ignores the pain.

He feels around for his bag on the ground and then grabs his cane and unfolds it.

He pushes his now-crooked glasses back into place and hoists his bag onto his shoulder as he taps his cane on the ground.

He has a basic idea of where things are. Things sound different at night, not quieter, but  _different_ , and if he tunes in, if he focuses, he can clearly hear the city's screaming and he can figure out where the objects around him are.

He takes a deep breath and gags. He should’ve noticed that there was a dumpster right next to him.

He starts walking, taking notice of his surroundings. He knows where he is, he’s right outside of St. Agnes, behind the wall. He’s been here before, in the daytime when the gates of the orphanage aren’t locked up. The buildings near him are shops and apartment buildings, but after that he doesn’t really know what they are because he’s not—he _wasn’t_ allowed to go very far past St. Agnes, even though some of the younger kids are.

“I’m blind, but I can get around fine,” he always wanted to tell the nuns, but he didn’t.

Wouldn’t do to get a reputation as difficult, especially since he already had one from his earlier days in St. Agnes.

He walks until he doesn’t know where he is, and then he keeps walking. Buildings, alleys, sidewalks, Matt maneuvers over the pavement with grace. It’s morning and the sun will be out soon, he knows it because he can hear and smell the early risers getting up, getting to work and eventually he’ll perceive the warmth of the rays of the sun, no matter how faint they are. He stays close to walls, ducks into alleys when he hears people near him.

He’s going to have to stop moving for the day, most likely. He tilts his head towards a building that he’s fairly sure is abandoned, probably condemned, and he can hear people inside, but he’ll avoid them easily. Other people without homes, most likely.

He heads into the building and winces when the smell and taste of dust and dirt and long-dried lead paint hit him, and when the taps of his cane echo in the room. Good acoustics, the bane of a blind man with a cane trying to stay incognito.

He goes over to the nearest wall and tucks his cane close to himself, no longer using it. Now he’s running his hand along the wall, feeling his way down the room. He makes a clicking sound with his tongue and it bounces off of the wall in front of him. He makes a sharp left and runs his hand along that wall until he finds the door.

Unsurprisingly, it’s the thing that smells like old paint. Gross.

He opens the door and finds himself in a stairwell.

The talking is coming from the basement and there’s no human or animal sounds in the upper level and no human or animal smells either, so Matt carefully heads up the stairs.

He feels around one of the rooms that he enters and is satisfied to note that there’s no window.

He’ll rest here.

He sits down against the door and stretches out his aching legs. He wonders how much he’s walked. He estimates a good few miles, and he’s pretty confident about that. His grasp of distance is pretty excellent.

He sticks his hand under his sleeve and checks his watch.

Still morning. It’s fall and getting closer every day to winter—Matt mourns the fact that his winter coat is so threadbare it barely even protects from the cold, especially considering how easily he gets cold—so it’ll be dark by seven at the latest, and then he’ll head out again.

He knows where he wants to be, he wants to be in Hell’s Kitchen, in his home, and he’s sure he’ll recognize it when he gets there, he certainly lived there long enough to memorize it as long as it hasn’t changed too much, and he doubts it has.

Hell’s Kitchen. Just the right place for the Devil to reside.

+

Matt gets to Hell’s Kitchen within three nights of walking—St. Agnes isn’t far, that's why it’s where all the Hell’s Kitchen orphans go—and then he finds an alley and makes his home there behind a dumpster. He curls himself up and nobody notices him, not even the people who go to throw out trash. He gets used to the stench of it, gets used to the constant nausea, turns the focus on his sense of smell down as much as possible. It doesn’t entirely work, but he manages to at least rummage through the garbage for food without throwing up.

The food that’s left in the trash usually has too much taste for him, though. The other kids at St. Agnes complained about the bland food, about how the menu never changed, always cycled through the same dishes every week, but Matt was always relieved by it, the only good thing about that place. Matt can’t stand too much flavor. He tastes everything, and too often it makes him sick.

He does his best to choke the blandest food he finds down. Pizza works best, he just strips the cheese and whatever else from it and scrapes off the sauce and it’s more bread than anything. He still gets thinner, but he expected that, though he doesn’t have much weight to lose. Most of his weight is muscle after all.

He walks around the neighborhood and inhales the familiar scents and the familiar sounds, and at the edge of the neighborhood finds town houses. These people must have a lot of money, he thinks, to live in such comfortable houses.

He can hear voices coming from inside, the voices of families. He doesn’t spend too long around there, the better off part of Hell’s Kitchen. That’s never been his place.

He lurks in alleyways and walks into stores and tries his best to get around without his cane when he knows there are people who can see him, because he knows he looks different now but some people may well remember little blind Matt Murdock.

Getting around without his cane is hard. He sticks close to walls, leans against them and focuses only on getting around, on not running into people and not tripping over curbs.

That’s why he likes his cane, it’s so much easier to get around with it. It’s also a dead giveaway, though. Sunglasses in the winter is eccentric, a white cane is disabled, and Matt’s sixteen and homeless, he can’t afford to be disabled right now, never mind the fact that he can’t see.

His cane stays in his duffel bag. He stays close to the dumpster at night and tries his best to block out the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen, the yelling and the screaming and the horns honking and motorcycles revving, the drunks laughing and singing.

And then somebody stumbles into his alley. He hears crying and he tunes in. A woman, her heart beating erratically, her face smelling of salt and copper. She gasps in pain as something in her arm crunches.

Broken arm.

Matt stands up. He knows he doesn’t exactly smell good and a sixteen year old boy doesn’t inspire confidence, but he has to help.

He tenses as he hears men running from approximately a block away, getting closer, turning into the alley.

The woman sobs and takes a deep breath, ready to scream. Her hair is long, Matt notes idly. He can hear it brushing against her back.

A man snarls something and the woman’s breath becomes panicked and irregular. Matt can relate, but right now his breathing is steady and so is his heartbeat.

The men say something, get closer, and the woman whimpers and then Matt can _hear_ her fight-or-flight response kick in, can hear it in her heart.

Her response is _fight_ , and she lunges at the men. Matt hears the tearing of skin and tastes the tang of copper in the air.

She clawed a guy’s face. Good.

The guys get angrier, snarl cruel words at her, and she snarls back wordlessly, growling low in her throat, ready to fight again, but Matt can hear a knife getting drawn and the guys getting closer to her, and she’s tough but it’s three against one, and Matt steps in.

He takes them by surprise, aims a kick at one of the guys and sweeps his feet right out from under him. The guy lands hard.

“What the fuck?” the man says.

Matt kicks him in the face and he’s down for the count.

The other guys turn towards him and he punches one, hears the cracking of a jaw as a hairline fracture forms.

He turns to the panicked beating of the woman’s heart and says, “Run, I’ve got this.”

She runs.

Matt ducks to avoid getting hit from behind and levels a hard kick at whoever tried to hit him’s knees.

Down he goes.

Another kick in the face, another unconscious asshole with a broken nose.

The last one is much bigger than him. All of them were bigger but Matt figures this one's got at least a head on him. He’s the one Matt punched, but he guesses the punch didn’t bring him down.

He takes a swing at Matt and Matt folds himself backwards and then gets himself on balance again and kicks the guy in the stomach, and Matt hears the _whoosh_ of the guy’s air being knocked out of him.

He levels a kick at the guy’s head, but the guy backs up and then manages to punch Matt in the face. It’s going to leave a hell of a black eye, Matt thinks bitterly, and now his glasses are broken too and there's a cut on his face from where the lens was driven into his face and broke skin. He’s glad he thought to bring extra glasses in his bag.

He’s hit in the shoulder and stomach in quick succession. Without thinking about it too much, Matt pops his shoulder back into its socket and lunges at the big guy again.

This is something Matt can do.

He gets in a couple of hits before he ends up getting pushed into a wall. Skin scrapes off of his cheek. It burns.

The guy's taken his knife out again, but it’s only a pocket knife, Matt could hear the _snick_ of it opening.

Matt ends up getting a cut on his shoulder—not a big deal, won’t even need stitches—before he manages to punch the guy in the throat and kick him in the face and the big guy’s down too.

Matt listens to heartbeats, to lungs expanding, and knows that all of the unconscious men are going to live, they’re going to be just fine.

Matt would call 911, but he doesn’t have a phone.

So he just ends up stumbling—he didn’t notice he’d been hit in the back of the leg and now he’s limping, what a drag—out of his alley, vaguely confused and feeling like he should get somewhere safe even though there's no such thing as a safe place because he’s pretty sure he can hear these guys’s buddies a few blocks away.

He walks away from their voices, holding onto his now painfully swollen shoulder. He’ll be fine without a doctor, though, because he’s been through much worse without a doctor. When it rains, all the fractures he has that were never treated ache, but he can ignore it. He can always ignore it.

The cut on his other shoulder is bleeding through his shirt. He should change his clothes at some point, he hasn’t in days and these ones stink.

His focus is all over the place and he can barely breathe, partially because his stomach still hurts every time he inhales and partially because everything’s loud and he’s gotten a block away from his alley but the smell of the dumpster mixed with all of the other smells and tastes of Hell’s Kitchen now finally make him double over and throw up bile. At least now his mouth tastes disgusting and is burning, but he can’t taste everything else nearly as much.

He winces and wishes he could cover his ears with his hands, at least give himself that, but his arms hurt too much to move them that much, and he’s still gripping his swollen arm anyway.

He can’t think of anything. He needs his cane, he keeps tripping and falling, he doesn’t know where he’s going, he just knows he’s going _forward_.

At least this place is familiar to him. He trips over a curb and bangs his knee. He stands up again, keeps going.

He always keeps going.

He ends up at the townhouses, reaches out a hand and can feel the familiar brick walls. He stumbles over to the back of one of the houses and everything in the world is screaming right into his ears and he can’t hear any signs of life from one of the houses, he thinks, so he ends up putting on a pair of sunglasses—they’re like a security blanket now, honestly—and doing his best to scale up a wall and haul himself through an open widow (who leaves a window open in this weather?). He doesn’t even know how he does it, considering the fact that his injuries are screaming at him to give them a break.

He ignores them. He’s really, really good at ignoring pain. It’s kind of a point of pride, honestly.

He lands on a carpeted floor, right on his swollen shoulder, and he groans.

And then he notices it.

Things have gotten at least slightly more muted, almost bearable, and Matt’s hearing a heartbeat. A fast heartbeat, a scared heartbeat, a surprised heartbeat. Lungs expanding. A heat signature from the other side of the room, slightly elevated, the other person must be on a bed.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Matt shouldn’t have done this. Matt is not usually this incredibly stupid. He’s usually only a little stupid.

“What the fuck?!” somebody asks. A male, most likely. Longish hair, Matt can just barely hear it sweeping against his shoulders.

He's a bit bigger than Matt, at least, the heat signature shows that. Matt’s still not sure about his muscles, can’t get a good read on that.

Matt lets his head fall back against the carpet, groans, and regrets all of the life decisions that got him here, except for most of them.

“Hi,” he says, trying to sound friendly. Mostly he just sounds like he’s being choked.

“What's even…? Why are you…? _Who_ …?”

The other person—Matt would bet anything that he’s also a teenager, considering the pitch of his voice, probably around Matt’s age, which he really hopes will work to his advantage—doesn’t seem particularly coherent right now. Matt doesn’t blame him.

“Please don’t call the police,” he says.

“Dude, you’re lying on my _carpet_. You just came in through my _window_. You have bruises and you’re _bleeding_.”

“All good reasons to call the police,” Matt says, breathing painfully and wondering if maybe he has a cracked rib from something. “Please don’t call the police.”

The guy makes an agitated motion, Matt can hear the rustling of clothes, and he flinches. He doesn’t like agitated motions from people he can’t beat up.

The guy gets up and then walks over and kneels next to Matt. “You don’t look good,” he informs him.

“No kidding,” Matt says, valiantly trying to sit up.

The guy pushes him down again and Matt bares his teeth threateningly. He doesn’t really know why. It doesn’t seem to work anyway, since the guy leans over him, Matt can feel the heat getting closer.

“Get away from me,” he says.

“No, I’m not letting you die on my carpet.”

“This is not dying,” Matt says, chuckling. “This is not even life threatening. This is something I’ll shake off in a day.”

“Dude, your arm’s all swollen.”

“Dislocated my shoulder, but I popped it back in. Not a big deal.”

“Okay, like, there were so many things fucked up with that sentence that I’m not even touching that.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, mysterious dude bleeding on my carpet—”

“There’s not even that much blood,” Matt protests.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh…” Matt tries to figure out a fake name to give the guy. “Mike?”

“Yeah, the fake name would’ve worked if it hadn’t sounded like you were asking a question.”

“Fuck,” Matt says eloquently. “Fine. It’s Matt.”

“Really? Like, really, really?”

“Yes, really, really. Matt.”

“Okay, cool. I’m Foggy.”

“What kind of name is Foggy?”

“My name.”

“I didn’t think there was anyone home.”

“Dude, the light in my room was on.”

“Oh,” Matt says. “I didn’t think there was anyone home.”

“Okay, whatever, you’re lucky I’m home alone, I don’t think my parents would be as cool about this as me.”

“And I thank you for that.”

“Whatever, weirdo. I’m getting the First Aid kit so you don’t die.”

Matt can hear Foggy walking away, and he calls out, “I’m not even close to dying!”

Foggy comes back with the First Aid kit and kneels next to Matt again. “How’d you bring a duffel bag with you when you climbed into my room? How’d you even climb into my room?”

“I don’t even know, so it must’ve been easy,” Matt says.

Foggy sighs, sounding put upon. Matt hates making people sound put upon, and he immediately feels guilt turn over his stomach. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

“I don’t know, better my room than like, the streets. Should I call the hospital?”

“No!” Matt says, reaching out and managing to grab Foggy’s arm. “No hospitals.”

He hates hospitals. Besides, they’ll just take him back to St. Agnes, and Matt’ll just run away again, and so on and so forth.

“Okay, okay, dude, fine.” Foggy lets out a dismayed breath. “I shouldn’t be this calm.”

“Probably not,” Matt says easily. “But let’s not analyze it too much.”

“You should take off your shirt.”

“Nope.”

“Then I’ll take off your shirt.”

“Ugh, fine,” Matt says, actually managing to sit up through sheer force of will. Sheer force of will is also needed to take off his jacket and t-shirt.

“Dude, it’s winter. What the hell are you doing dressed like this? Also, you _stink_.”

“I’ve been living next to a dumpster,” Matt says.

“…So there’s an injured homeless guy in my room. Cool. Totally doesn’t make me feel like a serial killer.”

“It’s fine,” Matt says, reaching out and just barely patting Foggy’s shoulder. “No one’d miss me anyway.”

“That’s not actually comforting.”

Matt shrugs with the arm that probably isn’t beginning to turn lots of interesting colors that he can’t see.

Matt figures Foggy’s finally managed to get a good look at his torso, because Foggy sucks in a pained breath. “Ouch,” he says.

“Yeah,” Matt says mournfully. “I guess.”

“Your arm doesn’t look great.”

“The swelling’ll go down soon.”

“Your cut up arm doesn’t look great either.”

“It’s not that deep. I should probably clean it, though.”

“Yeah, cool. I’ll help.”

Foggy’s surprisingly gentle as he cleans up Matt’s wound and clumsily tapes some gauze over it. He then cleans up a cut on Matt’s lip and the scrapes on his cheek. “How’s your eye?” he asks. “Looks like you’ve got a real shiner.”

Matt chuckles. “My eyes are my eyes.”

“Hey, dude, you think if I shine a flashlight into your eyes I’ll be able to tell if you have a concussion?”

“Definitely not. Also I don’t have a concussion, trust me.”

“You’ve sure got lots of scars.”

“Yeah.”

“And bruises. Are all these bruises from whoever beat you up?”

“Nah, probably not.”

“You get beat up a lot.”

“Less, lately.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Yeah, probably doesn’t. I’m fine, though.”

“…Yeah, sure.”

Matt goes to stand up, but Foggy asks, “What are you doing?”

“Um…leaving?”

“I don’t think you should do that.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Well, like, I guess, but you’re kind of beat up and it’s starting to snow and—”

“It’s snowing?” Matt asks. He tilts his head and there it is, the faint sound of snow falling gently. “Oh, fuck me.”

“Trust me, I would if I was like, into the whole handsome wounded duck thing.”

“…What?”

“You’re a good-looking guy, if you haven’t noticed.”

“That’s what they…tell me…” Matt says, still confused.

“It’s cool, I’m bi but I’m not, like, putting the moves on you.”

“Putting the moves on me?” Matt asks as he hauls himself to his feet. “Are we in the fifties?”

Foggy laughs. “I don’t know, I kinda like you, dude.”

 _I like you too_ , Matt doesn’t say, because it honestly kind of freaks him out how comfortable he feels around this guy so quickly. _High alert,_ he scolds himself. _He might be nice, but you can’t get too comfortable._

No one’s ever nice without a reason, not unless they’re family.

Matt lists to the side and Foggy grabs him and leads him over to a bed.

Matt sits down with a quiet, “Oomph.”

“You should sleep. Just stay here, okay?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. I could kill you in your sleep.”

“Okay, ignoring how fucking creepy that was, I don’t think you’re going to.”

Teenagers make friendships quickly, Matt thinks, and then he remembers that he’s a teenager too and decides he’s fucked, because the truth is that he can’t afford to not take this stranger’s offer. He can’t afford to go out again, he’ll freeze to death or he’ll get beaten to death or something, and he was ready for that, he really was, but this is a better deal.

Except Foggy’s a stranger, and Matt doesn’t trust strangers. Not anymore.

But Foggy’s heartbeat is steady and true, and he’s so _genuine_. He really is. “Who lives with you?” Matt asks.

“My parents.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“So am I.” Matt pauses. "You can’t tell your parents about this.”

“Dude, I can’t just hide you in my room.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

“No!” Foggy says. “Fine. I won’t tell them, just stay for a while, okay? If you go out there and go to sleep next to a dumpster again you’re _really_ gonna die.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Just don’t tell anyone about me, you have to promise. Adults learn about this, they’ll send me back to the orphanage.”

“You mean St. Agnes?”

“Yeah. Shitty place.”

“Looks like a shitty place.”

“I’m sick of it. And I’m sick of the people there. Adults in general.”

“Okay, I can see you’ve got lots of feelings about this, but first you have to change into something that doesn’t stink and, like. Sleep. And not die while you’re sleeping.”

“I’ve told you, I’m not even _close_ to dying.”

“Still freaks me out. You have any clothes in that bag?”

“None that aren’t just as dirty as these.”

“You can borrow some of my clothes while I wash yours.”

“Fine,” Matt says, because he’s starting to get tired. He’s starting to get so tired that he can’t even think. He just changes into the clothes Foggy throws at him—and Foggy _is_ bigger, the clothes hang off of Matt's frame—and ignores the fact that he can hear Foggy rummaging in his duffel bag as he lies back on the bed. He should be sleeping on the floor, but he hasn’t slept in two days and he’s exhausted and in pain and he can’t bring himself to care about anything right now.

“Dude, you have so many sunglasses. By the way, you should probably take those off.”

Matt gropes around and takes his sunglasses off and drops them onto the floor while his eyes are still closed.

“That’s one way to do it,” Foggy mutters, before Matt’s pretty sure he takes something out of the bag. “Dude, what’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“This!”

“What?”

“The white folded up…stick thing.”

“It’s my cane,” Matt mumbles. “Helps me get around.”

“Your cane? Like…holy shit, like the cane for _blind_ people? You’re fucking _blind_?”

“As a bat,” Matt mutters and he drifts off to sleep to the sound of Foggy quietly freaking out.


	2. A Place to Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me forever to put up! I hope you guys like it, though, and I'm really thrilled at the response to the first chapter, so thank you for that.
> 
> (Incidentally, this story takes place in the MCU, 2015.)
> 
> Also, heads up: there's a short scene in this chapter where someone vomits. It's not graphic or long, but I wanted to warn any emetophobic readers out there.

Matt wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a truck, and he’d know. He resists the urge to groan, and instead grimaces and sits up with some difficulty. He’ll be able to shake the pain off pretty soon, but it still doesn’t exactly feel great.

He feels the bed under him, feels the scratchy cotton covers on top of him, senses another heat signature in the room and hears another person’s breath coming from the area of the floor, and he can smell something (pancakes, maybe) being made somewhere nearby. He almost panics before remembering where he is. Then he does panic, just a little, because this was a terrible idea that really weirdly worked out, which just isn't something that happens. He literally climbed into someone’s bedroom, and then that someone invited him to stay instead of calling the police, which is probably the luckiest Matt has ever been in his entire life.

And now he’s in an actual bed, one that’s way nicer than those at St. Agnes, and the covers are still uncomfortable but they’re at least a little softer than the sandpaper they use at the orphanage. Matt’s wearing somebody else’s clothes, and he doesn’t smell great but he doesn’t smell entirely of trash either, and he can’t believe this. This is just bizarre, and Matt’s confused, because all of his other emotions are too complicated to focus on right now, so he’s going to focus on the confusion.

Something rustles through the air, heading straight towards him, and he grabs it without thinking.

“Nice catch,” Foggy says, sounding impressed.

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

There’s an awkward silence before Foggy says, “Uh, you should probably take a shower. You definitely need it. There’s a bathroom right across the hall, just, uh, be careful. Don’t want my parents to catch you.”

“That would be bad,” Matt says mildly.

“No kidding.” Then Foggy pauses. "Wait, can you, like…take a shower?”

Matt rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, getting up and making his way over to the door, clothes in hand. Cotton polyester mix shirt and sweatpants. Good enough, and the sweatpants are so soft and worn they’re actually pleasant to the touch. He trips over something, he’s not sure what, and Foggy breathes in harshly, like he’s about to apologize, before Matt waves it away.

Matt makes sure the other voices he hears are downstairs before he goes into the bathroom and moves around, touching the sink and the toilet and the walls, figuring out where everything is. The shower is easy to use, it doesn’t have one of those hellish detachable spouts that always come off when Matt doesn’t want them to, and he only has to fiddle with the knob for a minute before he gets hot water. He steps into the shower, making sure he’s standing on the mat so he won’t slip, and he sighs in relief as the warm water hits his aching skin. He rolls his shoulder and winces, hissing in pain. He pokes at it and winces again. It’s swollen and bruised and he feels nauseous for a second before he shoves the pain to the back of his mind and focuses on the water on his skin, on the sound of water crashing against the floor of the shower, loud and echoing in a way that’s comforting.

Matt can’t remember the last time he took a shower. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to untangle the knots that have made their home there. The pain of his fingers pulling through his hair barely even registers. His previously dislocated shoulder throbs, and his other injuries protest every movement he makes. He powers through it, though. He has to. He’s not in pain, he’s not in pain, he’s not in pain. He’s felt worse than this, he’s felt much worse than this, it would be pathetic to complain about a dislocated shoulder and some cuts and bruises, even in his head.

The stiffness in his muscles fades away a bit as the water hits them, and Matt gropes around the shower and finds a few bottles of hair things, or at least, he guesses that they are by the shape. He grabs one and opens it, sniffing it to try and get an idea of what it is. He doesn’t really want to accidentally use conditioner instead of shampoo, it makes his hair feel so greasy. Whatever this is smells like almonds, but he can’t figure out which chemicals are in it because this is probably way more expensive than whatever he used at St. Agnes. He experimentally squirts some of whatever he’s holding into his hand and judges by its thickness that it is in fact shampoo. He rubs it into his hair, massaging his scalp, and he forgot how great showers were, how nice they felt when he was sore, because when he was on the streets it would've been pretty stupid to remember. Missing things just hurts, and he didn’t have time for that. He _doesn't_ have time for that.

Matt finally, reluctantly steps out of the shower, shivering as the warmth from the water starts fading away. He grabs the fluffiest towel he can find—some parts where it's gotten worn still scrape at his skin uncomfortably—and dries himself off before putting on the clothes that Foggy gave him.

He definitely smells a lot better now, and he’s more than a little relieved about that. He pauses before he opens the door, making sure the coast is clear before he goes into Foggy’s room again, this time stepping carefully so he can skirt around whatever’s on the floor. He gropes around the floor for his glasses, puts them on once he finds them, and then sits on the bed, crossing his legs.

“Okay,” Foggy says, quiet. “I have to go to school, you gonna be okay here? Not like, leave or die while I’m gone?”

Matt chuckles. “I won’t die.”

“Or leave.”

“What’s the big deal if I do?”

“I don’t know, it just seems kind of shitty to leave you out on the streets when I’ve got a house right here. And it’s still snowing.”

Matt shrugs, ignoring the jolt of pain that runs through both his arms at the motion. “I’ll stay,” he says to appease Foggy, and he guesses he will. He likes Foggy well enough, to be honest, and there’s a guilty part of him that doesn’t really feel like giving up this comfort yet. Comfort isn’t important, he knows that, but it’s cold outside and his jacket is threadbare, and he could actually get sick or hurt if he went out there again. He’ll wait until it gets a bit warmer, and then he’ll get out of Foggy’s way. He has to be careful here, especially since there are adults in the house. He mostly trusts that Foggy won’t tell his parents about what’s going on, but he’s still going to have to keep an ear out just in case it’s coaxed out of him.

“Anyway, uh, bye,” Foggy says, and Matt nods in his general direction as Foggy heads out and goes downstairs. Matt can hear the stairs creaking, but he can also tell that they’re covered in carpet from the way Foggy’s footsteps are muffled.

“Morning, Foggy,” the pleasant female voice Matt’s been mostly tuning out says as Matt focuses on the sounds downstairs.

“Hey, mom,” Foggy says, and Matt grimaces, because he can hear the anxiety in Foggy’s voice. He really hopes that he hasn’t ended up taking refuge with a bad liar.

“Want some breakfast?”

“No thanks, I have to get to school.”

“Wait, take a granola bar at least.”

“Right, yeah, most important meal of the day, blah, blah, bye mom!”

“Bye, have a nice day!”

“You too!”

It’s such an incredibly normal conversation that Matt almost laughs. Matt misses having casual conversations like that with his dad, but he prefers not to think about that. Ignoring stuff has always been his best defense, and Matt stands up and pads around the room as quietly as possible, finding some socks that he really hopes are clean and pulling them on when the carpet starts irritating his feet. He walks around the room, figuring out how big it is, feeling the rough walls, pushes some stuff to the side so he won’t trip and hopes Foggy won’t mind, finds places he might be able to hide if worst comes to worst. He finds a bookshelf and runs his hands over the spines of the books. He’s able to feel out words on some of them, the hardback books, but most of them are paperback and he can’t really feel the titles. The hardbacks are mostly classics, and Matt pulls out _A Tale of Two Cities_ and sits on the floor, concentrating hard to figure out each word. Braille is much easier, and screen readers are even easier than Braille, but he can kind of do this, and he manages to read some of the book, though much more slowly than he would if he were reading Braille. 

The only thing Matt’s ever read by Dickens before was _A Christmas Carol_ when he was a kid, way back when he could see, and honestly, _A Tale of Two Cities_ is pretty boring, and Matt’s ninety percent sure that the whole “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” thing doesn’t even make sense, but it’s okay, and he passes the time with it before he hears someone start walking up the stairs. He shoves the book back into the shelf and relaxes when he figures out that it’s Foggy’s shoes going up the stairs. He’s taking them two at a time. Foggy’s heartbeat is kind of quick, like he’s excited or maybe panicked. Foggy walks into the room and Matt carefully stops rocking back and forth—he hadn’t even noticed he was doing it—and turns his head in Foggy’s general direction.

“Hey, Matt,” Foggy says.

Matt smiles.

“So, you’re Matt Murdock, right?”

Matt’s smile disappears. “How’d you know that?” he asks, defensive.

“Don’t freak out, dude, I just remember you being in the papers when we were kids. You’re the kid who knocked that old guy out of the way of a truck or something.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “That’s me. That’s how…” he makes a vague motion in the general vicinity of his face.

“I know. Wow, you’re like a hero.”

Matt snorts. “Sure. I did what anyone would’ve done.”

“Bullshit,” Foggy says. “You were like _nine_ , it’s pretty amazing that you’d risk your life for some random guy.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Matt says. “I met him after. He visited me at the hospital and he sent me Christmas gifts every year until he...um.”

“...Yeah, but you didn’t know he was a nice guy.”

Matt shrugs again. “I did what anyone would have done,” he repeats stubbornly, and Foggy sighs.

“Sure, suit yourself. Anyway, uh…what kinda dick decided to beat up on a blind kid?”

“It wasn’t a big deal. I just…” he pauses. “I just got jumped. It happens.”

“Yeah, but that’s totally shitty.”

“There are shitty people out there,” Matt points out.

“But you had a bunch of bruises and scars and stuff. Who’s beating up on a blind kid regularly?”

“The other kids at St. Agnes weren’t exactly my biggest fans, and, w-well…well. Being blind doesn’t exactly make me immune to people beating up on me. It just makes people think I’m an easy target.”

“That sucks.”

“It’s not a big deal. I got used to all of this a long time ago.”

“…Yeah, that’s pretty fucked up, but, like, whatever. How’d you climb into my room, though?”

“You already asked that.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t answer and anyway, that when I thought you were, uh…”

“Sighted?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s the word.”

“I can do a lot of things, Foggy,” Matt says. “How I do them isn’t the important part.” Actually, it kind of is, but Matt’s having fun being cryptic, and he grins when Foggy lets out an irritated breath.

“Okay, be that way.”

+

Foggy’s a good guy, and Matt honestly hasn’t ever wanted to be _around_ someone so much for a long time, not so early on in the...friendship. He actually feels disappointed when Foggy has to leave. Matt’s been lonely, he just prefers not to admit that, and honestly, it seems like Foggy isn’t exactly considering him a burden either. He actually seems pretty happy about having Matt around, and Matt has a sneaking suspicion that Matt might not be the only one who’s lonely. Foggy’s a loud kind of lonely, though. He’s a reaching-out kind of lonely. Matt’s always been a stay-away kind of lonely.

Matt shouldn’t eavesdrop, but it’s just become a fact of life since the accident and he doesn’t have anything to do, so he tunes into the conversation downstairs.

“How was school?” Foggy’s mother asks.

“Pretty good,” Foggy says. “Pretty sure I aced my U.S. History test.”

“Great,” the guy who must be Foggy’s dad says. He's got a deep, almost relaxing voice. “And no one bothered you today?”

Matt frowns.

Foggy sighs heavily, annoyed, and says, “No one bothers me.”

“Right,” Mrs. Nelson says in a placating tone of voice.

Bullies. Matt feels a surge of rage at the idea that someone as nice as Foggy has to put up with that.

“Anyway, what’ve you been doing up in your room all day?” Mrs. Nelson asks.

“I’m usually up in my room all day,” Foggy points out.

“Yes, and I have no idea what you’re doing, which is why I asked.”

“Just, um, reading and watching TV on the computer and stuff.”

“What about homework?” Mr. Nelson asks.

“Please, dad, I finished that at school.”

Matt smiles to himself, but the smile fades as a bitter taste rises in his throat. Foggy has a family. Parents. Matt never had that, not both of them, but he had his dad, and that was more than enough family for him, but then—

Then.

Something in Matt’s chest jerks when he thinks about the last time he saw his dad, when he thinks of how his dad wanted him to be proud of him.

 _I was always proud of you, dad_ , Matt’s wanted to say since the moment he ran his hands over his father’s face and didn’t feel warm breath on his fingers, since the moment he didn’t hear his dad's familiar heartbeat. _Even when you lost_.

He wonders if his dad would be proud of who Matt’s become. He’s not sure if he would be, and he couldn’t blame his dad for it because Matt’s angry and he’s violent and he’s everything his dad didn’t want him to be. He’s never going to be able to be the person his dad wanted him to be, he’s never going to be able to go to college like his dad wanted him to, and when he meets his dad in Heaven in what he’s sure will be a short time, the first thing Matt will do is ask forgiveness.

Foggy’s still talking to his parents downstairs, and Matt hears laughter--Foggy's delighted, Mrs. Nelson's high and braying, Mr. Nelson's low and warm--and it pierces his skin, because this is a home. Not Matt’s home, because Matt hasn’t had one of those for a long time, but somebody’s home. This is a warm place where there’s people who love each other, and Matt’s an intruder. Matt’s an intruder almost anywhere he goes, no matter where he’s staying, because the thing about him is that he doesn’t have a home, not anymore. He just has places to stay. That’s all.

And that’s all he needs. A place to stay. He’s lucky to have one at all, incredibly lucky. He’s lucky to have met someone charitable enough to let him stay in his room, even for just a while. It makes Matt uncomfortable, the idea that he’s intruding on somebody’s life, and the idea that he’s taking charity is so much worse, but he’s tired, and Matt’s never, ever wanted to die, not even when people expected him to after the accident, though he’s always been resigned to an early death. He’s just never been ready.

And it’s warm here. It’s warm here, so Matt will stay for just a little while. Just long enough to get up his strength. Just long enough for a few of the bruises to fade, for the swelling to go down. Just long enough to hear a friendly heartbeat every once in a while.

He lies down on the carpet, exhausted. There’s this heaviness in his chest but he’s okay, he’s okay. He just doesn’t really feel like moving.

Matt’s lying curled on the floor when Foggy comes back upstairs, door clicking closed behind him.

“Dude, what are you doing on the carpet?” Foggy asks.

Matt doesn’t shrug since he’s lying down. Instead he just says, “I’m tired.”

“Take the bed, Matt,” Foggy says.

“I can’t take your bed,” Matt says like he’s said it a thousand times before even though he hasn’t.

“Seriously, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor, you’re hurt. I have a futon, I can bring it upstairs.”

“I’ll sleep on the futon,” Matt says.

“No—”

“I’ll sleep on the futon,” Matt snaps, and Foggy stops talking abruptly. Matt immediately feels bad and mumbles, “Sorry.”

Foggy sighs. “You can take the futon, okay? But I still think you’d heal faster if you just took the bed.”

“It’s fine,” Matt says. “It doesn’t hurt.” He’s not exactly lying, but he’s not exactly telling the truth either. His injuries do kind of hurt, they’re making him feel sore and there’s a throbbing all over his body, but he’s so used to feeling this way that it’s not even like pain anymore. It’s just normal. He thinks that being totally pain free would be weird at this point, not to mention wishful thinking.

“Right,” Foggy says, clearly not believing him. “I’m gonna bring up the futon, okay?”

“Okay,” Matt mumbles, letting his eyes drift closed. He doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s dark outside or light or what, but he’s tired and he doesn’t know if he should be sleeping—he should be vigilant—but he’s so tired. All the time. It feels like he hasn’t gotten any sleep in years.

Matt faintly hears the sound of the door opening and Foggy dragging something—presumably the futon—into the room and letting it flop onto the floor right next to Matt. “Hey,” Foggy murmurs. “Hey, c’mon, don’t sleep on the floor, it’ll take five seconds to get onto the futon.”

Matt groans and manages to find his way onto the futon and then finally falls asleep. Just before he does, he feels a heavy blanket get tucked around his shoulders. It’s scratchy cotton, but it’s not so bad that he’ll have to kick it off right away.

Matt’s in a tunnel. He reaches out to touch the wall and it’s covered with something—slime, maybe. He keeps trailing his fingers along the wall and then reaches something with a different consistency. He frowns. He knows this substance, he does.

He removes his hand from the wall as quickly as possible and tries to wipe it off on his pants, but it just keeps smearing onto his hands.

Blood, he knows what blood feels like, he knows what it feels like, he does. He lifts his hands to his face. He looks around wildly and sees flashes of red, patches of blood dripping down the walls, and yes, yes, yes, covering his hands. His hands, he needs to get this off of his _hands_ , he can hear the blood dripping from the walls and the ceiling, now, can feel it falling onto his body like thick rain, trailing down his face and getting into his mouth.

There’s copper in the air, an overwhelming taste, an overwhelming smell. He stumbles forward and his footsteps echo. “Help,” he whispers, and that echoes too and he knows that he’s all alone, that he’s going to be here forever until he drowns in the blood. “Help me!” he screams, and then—

Somebody’s touching him, shaking him, holding him down, and Matt takes a swing at the person and his fist clips their chin. He should've been able to throw a better punch, but he’s still sleep-addled.

“Fuck!” somebody hisses. “Ow, fuck!”

Foggy.

Matt sits up, panting. “I…” he says, and then he swallows. “Did I hurt you?” he asks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Matt breathes in shakily. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s cool,” Foggy says, but Matt’s pretty sure he’s saying it through clenched teeth. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Matt says uselessly, softly. This is it, he’s going to get kicked out, he shouldn’t hurt other people, he shouldn’t do that, he didn’t mean to but it doesn’t matter. “Sorry.”

“Seriously, Matt, it’s okay,” Foggy says. “You didn’t even really get me. Hopefully it won’t bruise, though. If it does I’ll just say…uh…”

“You fell and hit your chin on your nightstand,” Matt whispers, guilty and nauseous.

“Yeah, that’s pretty good,” Foggy says.

Matt’s really good at making up excuses. “Sorry,” he says again.

Foggy groans. “Seriously, stop apologizing.”

“Okay. What happened…?” Matt asks. His whole body’s shaking and he’s started rocking back and forth even though Foggy’s here. It’s a better option than really freaking out, though.

“I think you were having a nightmare. You were talking in your sleep and I was afraid you were gonna get louder, so I woke you up.”

“Oh,” Matt says.

“Foggy?” somebody—Foggy’s mother, Matt knows her voice right now—calls from downstairs. “You okay? I heard something.”

“Nothing, mom!” Foggy says, sounding a little nervous. “I just fell out of bed!”

Foggy’s mother lets out a brief laugh and says, “Okay! Be careful!”

“Yeah!” Foggy calls back, and then his mom doesn’t say anything else and Foggy lets out a relieved breath. “What were you dreaming about anyway?” he asks Matt.

Matt shrugs uncomfortably. “Nothing, really. I, um, don’t remember.”

“Sure,” Foggy says easily. “So…like…” he pauses for a moment before soldiering on. “Do you see stuff in your dreams?”

“Sometimes,” Matt says. “Flashes of colors and bits of old memories, mostly, from back when I could…you know. Not too much, though. It’s mostly just normal.”

“Right,” Foggy says. He sighs. “I’m gonna, uh. I’m gonna go? I have to go to school.” Foggy walks over to the door and then pauses. “School…so, does this mean you’re a dropout?”

 _Dad would be so disappointed_. The thought takes Matt’s breath away. “I…” Matt says. “I-I-I…” He clears his throat, then takes a deep breath. “I guess.”

Foggy says, softly, “Do you read Braille?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. See you later.”

And then he’s gone, and Matt finds himself sitting on the floor. He pokes his previously dislocated shoulder hard, and the shot of pain that runs through it makes him nauseous.

He presses down harder.

His breath is coming too fast and he’s trying so hard to get it even again but he ends up just covering his mouth to muffle the sound of his harsh breathing, which makes him feel like he’s choking but is better than giving his position away. He shakes and hyperventilates for ten minutes, so it’s not too bad, but then he’s tired, so he walks over to the other side of the bed and curls up on the floor and sleeps.

Somebody’s screaming and Matt’s running but he has an uncomfortable feeling that he’s running in place. The screaming is echoing, echoing off of all the walls, and Matt doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t recognize this place, he doesn’t recognize—

“Hey, Matt,” Foggy says. “Hey, wake up, wake up.”

Matt wakes up, breathing heavily. He sits up and feels dizzy, but he forces himself to stay up. “Wha’?”

“You were having another nightmare,” Foggy says. “I think.”

“Sorry,” Matt says.

“Don’t—whatever. It’s fine.”

Matt shakes his head. “Ugh,” he groans. “I wish I didn’t have to sleep. Life would be so much easier.”

“Yeah, too bad that’s like…not a thing. Everyone sleeps. I’m gonna bring you some food,” Foggy announces, and he gets up.

“It’s fine, I’m not hungry,” Matt says, because he shouldn’t be eating other people’s food, but Foggy walks out the door anyway.

Matt can smell things in the kitchen downstairs, things he hasn’t had in ages like cookies. They don’t smell as processed as so many sweets do, and Matt thinks they must be homemade.

Matt’s stomach hurts.

Foggy brings him up a sandwich—ham and lettuce and tomato on white bread, and a few granola bars—and Matt removes the tomato and lettuce from the sandwich before stuffing most of the rest of it into his mouth. He really was hungry. There’s still some remnants of tomato juice on the bread, and the moistness on the lettuce lingers, but it’s not too bad and Matt’s been eating trash anyway, so this is basically gourmet.

“You don’t like vegetables?” Foggy asks.

“I don’t mix food that much,” Matt mumbles at him through a mouthful of bread and ham. He works through all of the granola bars after he finishes the sandwich, until Foggy’s heartbeat betrays nervousness.

Foggy says, “You should slow down, you’re gonna make yourself—”

That’s the moment that Matt feels a wave of nausea wash over him. He clamps a hand over his mouth and gags. Thankfully, Foggy thinks fast enough to grab a wastebasket and shove it into Matt’s arms, and Matt leans forward and hurls everything he just ate. What a waste.

He heaves a few times and then sits back, panting and still hugging the wastebasket to his chest.

“Foggy?” Mrs. Nelson calls from downstairs, and Matt tenses. He shoves the wastebasket at Foggy and, as footsteps pound up the stairs, dives under the bed, hitting his head on the bed frame on his way in. He curls up, hoping he’s not visible in any way.

“Foggy, what happened?” Mrs. Nelson asks. “Are you okay?”

“Uh,” Foggy says. “Yeah?”

“You seemed fine today, you didn’t seem sick.”

“I, uh, ate something. I didn’t…uh, at school. Some food. I ate it and it didn’t agree with me.” Foggy laughs.

“You sure it’s not stress? Something going on at school?”

“Mom, come on. Seriously, I’m fine.”

“You had a nightmare last night.”

“Mom, I don’t have nightmares.”

“I don’t know, I heard something from up here, and I could’ve sworn—”

“Yeah, no. I really did just fall out of bed. It was a good dream, just…exciting.”

“Oh, good Lord, son, there are things I don’t need to know—”

“Mom! God, not that!”

Mrs. Nelson snickers and Matt has to bite his lip to keep from smiling. “Okay,” she says. “As long as you’re sure everything’s fine.”

“Everything’s fine, mom,” Foggy says. “Ugh, I have to clean this out.”

“Here, I’ll help, come with me.”

Foggy and Mrs. Nelson go downstairs. Matt hears the door close behind them, and after a half hour on high alert, he decides that it’s okay to roll out from under the bed. He’s glad that he scoped out all possible hiding spots in the room the other day. It’s important to always be able to hide.

The next day, when Foggy wakes up Matt pretends that he hasn’t been awake most of the night, only dozing off for ten minutes at a time, not enough to really fall asleep. He’s on high alert, he tells himself. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go to sleep, it’s that he can’t. He has to make sure nothing happens, because night is when everyone’s defenses are down, and besides, other people’s defenses always seem to be down. It’s frustrating. Everybody else in the world is in so much danger all the time, and none of them seem to notice.

“No nightmares,” Foggy says.

“Yeah, no nightmares.”

“Cool. It’s Friday, so you won’t have to be bored all by yourself for six hours for at least a couple of days.”

Matt smiles wryly. “Lucky me.”

“Hey, I am a a _gift_ ,” Foggy says.

“Of course,” Matt replies, laughing almost silently, just a soft whoosh of air escaping from his lips. He’s very good at being quiet. Foggy isn’t quite as good, but he’s clearly adaptable, and Matt’s glad, because it probably wouldn’t be good if Foggy’s parents thought he was talking to himself all day.

While Foggy’s gone, Matt shoves himself into a corner of the room and tries to keep reading _A Tale of Two Cities_. It’s painstaking work and he misses a fair amount of the words, but he’s kind of interested in the story. Interested enough, at least, to keep trying to read it even though it takes him several minutes to get through each line. Foggy’s back eventually, and Matt wrinkles his nose when he smells mud and damp. It’s raining a little outside, he thinks, a strange muffled rain, but Foggy shouldn’t be bringing so much of the smell inside with him. He smells like mud. “Did you fall?”

“What?” Foggy asks.

“You smell kinda off.”

“Ugh, I tripped into some mud,” Foggy says, sounding annoyed. “Backpack got covered with it.” Foggy sighs, and then says under his breath, “Assholes.”

Matt knows he wasn’t supposed to hear that, so he bites his lip and politely doesn’t comment on the fact that Foggy definitely didn’t trip.

Foggy grumbles to himself as he does his best to clean off his backpack, but eventually he’s done and his annoyed breathing evens out into something easier. “Hey, do you watch TV?” He pauses. “Uh, I mean, not like…watch, like…hear? Uh—”

Matt lets out a chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. No, I don’t really watch TV all that much. Or movies. We didn’t have any TV’s at St. Agnes anyway, or computers that weren’t a million years old.” _Not to mention inaccessible_.

“Oh. Uh…you wanna…hear…a movie with me anyway?”

“You can say I watch stuff, Foggy,” Matt says. “I say it.”

“Oh, okay. I mean, I have the first _Terminator_ movie. We could watch it on my computer? Uh, it doesn't have descriptive audio, but…I mean, you can hear people getting beat up.”

Matt shrugs. “I already hear people getting beat up a lot,” he points out.

“That’s fucked up,” Foggy says easily. “Okay, we could watch something else, uh…” He opens his closet and digs around what’s clearly some kind of pile of movies. “If you don’t want action, we could do…uh…hey!” Foggy says, voice brightening. “ _Legally Blonde_!”

Matt snorts. “What the hell is _Legally Blonde_?”

Foggy, clearly containing laughter, says, “Only a seminal work of great artistic import.”

Matt grins. “Okay.”

They sit against the wall, the one behind the bed, so it’ll be easier to hide if Foggy’s parents decide to come up, and Foggy apologetically says, “Sorry I can’t put the volume up too loud.”

“It’s fine,” Matt says. “My hearing is great.”

He follows the movie pretty well, and when he doesn’t know what’s on the screen Foggy fills him in. Matt doesn’t usually laugh at comedies, but the movie is silly and it has law stuff in it, and he’s been kind of stressed and he hasn’t seen a movie in years, so it’s actually pretty nice, especially with somebody else there.

“See?” Foggy says once the credits start rolling. “Great artistic import.”

Matt smiles. “Truly. Ugh, what time is it?”

“Shit, it’s like midnight. I should probably go to sleep. You wanna take the bed?”

“What do you think?”

“Fine, fine, just tell me if you dislocate your shoulder again during the night or something.”

“Sure, Foggy.”

Matt lies down on the futon and pretends to sleep for a while until he hears Foggy start sleep-breathing and then sits up.

He listens to Foggy’s breathing, his heartbeat. He focuses and he can hear Mr. And Mrs. Nelson’s heartbeats too.

Steady, steady.

+

Matt and Foggy talk a lot—about everything, about what Foggy’s learning at school, about the fact that Foggy wants to be a lawyer and Matt technically wants to be one too ( _not like that’s ever gonna happen—shut up, Foggy, it’s not_ ), about Foggy’s family and what his school is like ( _ugh_ ) and how it is to live on the streets and in St. Agnes (Matt doesn’t tell him everything, of course, just the bare minimum, not enough to really _understand_ )—and Matt doesn’t sleep much. He’s been in the house for a week, and he should be leaving soon, honestly, but the idea fills him with a weird kind of dread and this aching feeling of _missing_ something, though he has no idea what it is he’s missing.

A lot of the time, when Matt sleeps, Foggy ends up waking him up because he was starting to mutter and toss and turn. Matt doesn’t mention that sometimes he screams in his sleep. He hasn’t yet, not here, so that’s something.

Foggy’s been getting less sleep, Matt can hear it in his voice and the way his words are broken up by yawns every once in a while. Foggy'll get used to it, people always do, but Matt feels terrible for depriving Foggy of sleep.

Matt sometimes hears Foggy’s parents downstairs, having conversations about the fact that Foggy seems a little strange lately, maybe he’s having nightmares, he doesn’t seem to be sleeping, do you think those kids at school are bothering him again?

Matt hates himself for being the reason that they’re worrying about Foggy, and he decides that when his dislocated shoulder stops hurting, he’ll leave. He starts spending a lot of the time with his shoulder pressed against the floor until his entire arm is screaming in pain.

The sleep deprivation ends up getting to him, though, and he finally just falls asleep.

(Weak. Stupid)

He’s walking through a graveyard. He knows it because he can hear the wind howling through the trees and feel the gravestones under his fingertips, smell flowers wilting all around him.

He knows this place. He taps his cane against the stones, makes his way to his father’s grave—it’s muscle memory, now. He feels very calm. He wants to say something. He wants to say, _I think I’ll be seeing you soon_.

But when he gets to the grave something crumbles under his feet and then he’s falling. He’s falling _into_ the grave, but this isn’t—this isn’t six feet, and why was the grave dug up, anyway?

He can hear cheering. He can hear cheering and smell decomposition, he can hear things, bodies, they’re bodies, moving towards him, dragging themselves along.

They’re cheering. They’re cheering ( _Murdock! Murdock! Murdock!_ ) and they’re coming for him, they’re reaching for him. Matt turns and runs, he runs as far away as he can from the hordes, but then he hears them—he hears them from all over—they’ve got him surrounded on every side—they’re digging through the walls--Matt stumbles.

Matt falls.

( _Murdock! Murdock! Murdock!_ )

Matt screams.

“Matt, fuck, Matt! Matt! Shit, Matt, wake up, wake up!”

“What happened?!” someone is calling from downstairs, a man’s voice, Mr. Nelson. “What happened?! Foggy? Franklin! Are you okay?”

Matt is gasping for breath.

A stair creaks.

“Shit, shit, shit, they’re coming up here, oh, God. Hide!”

Matt, still gasping, his heart still pounding, grabs his glasses from their place next to the futon and rolls under the bed and tries to get himself under control as he shoves the glasses onto his face. He bites his hand to keep himself from making any noise, makes himself as still as possible.

“Foggy, unlock the door!”

Foggy does. “Hey,” he says, sounding out of breath. “Hey.”

“What the hell happened?” Mrs. Nelson asks. “What was that? Sweetie, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I just had a…weird dream.”

“Foggy, what’s going on?” Mrs. Nelson says. “You’ve been acting so strange.”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just..it’s not a big deal, I think I ate something that…”

“Why do you have the futon up here?” Mr. Nelson says.

Foggy’s breath catches. Matt’s does too.

“Uh…I’ve just been sitting there to watch movies and stuff.”

“Uh-huh. Whose duffel bag is that?”

“What? Oh, that’s mine, I bought it a couple of days ago.”

“It certainly doesn’t look like something you bought a couple of days ago. What’s in it?” Mr. Nelson starts moving. Matt tracks Mr. Nelson's footsteps to the edge of the room, where Matt's bag is pushed against a wall.

Foggy runs over to his dad and says, “Woah, woah, woah, you do not want to look in that.”

“Why?”

“Uh, there are…it’s…porn, it’s porn.”

“That wasn’t a very good lie,” Mrs. Nelson points out skeptically. “And…oh, God, Foggy, is that blood?”

“What?” Mr. Nelson asks, alarmed.

“On the carpet. When did that happen?”

Mr. Nelson walks over to what Matt is now pretty sure is a fairly sizable patch of blood (he wasn’t even bleeding that much!) in the carpet. Matt can hear his knees hit the floor, so he’s kneeled next to it.

And then—“Son,” Mr. Nelson says slowly. “Who’s under the bed?”

Matt stops breathing at the same time Foggy does.

Foggy squeaks out, “What?”

“I’m assuming that that’s not the tip of your foot sticking out from under the edge of the blanket.”

“Fuck,” Foggy says.

Matt wonders if he has time to jump out of the window and run away.

“Come out from under the bed,” Mr. Nelson says.

“Honestly, Foggy,” Mrs. Nelson is muttering to herself. “What the fuck?”

Matt checked the window yesterday, though. It’s locked. He’d have to break it, and then the fall would probably end up knocking him out.

Matt rolls out from under the bed because, yep, this is over, sits up, adjusts his glasses, and says, “Hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone take note of this super cute art for this chapter by sunatsubu: http://sunatsubu.tumblr.com/post/122437366367/art-for-chapter-2-of-this-fic-by-telm393-because


	3. Problem Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK. I'm really hoping that there'll never be a wait as long as the one between chapter two and this chapter. I'm not going to promise, but I'm going to say that it's VERY LIKELY that chapters four and five are going to be up in much less time than it took for me to get this chapter up. I hope you guys like this.
> 
> Also thank you for all the support you've given this story despite the giant gap between updates. 
> 
> AND because wonderful people are out there, here's fan art for the last scene of chapter two, with a perfect teenage Foggy! Thanks, sunatsubu. 
> 
> http://sunatsubu.tumblr.com/post/122437366367/art-for-chapter-2-of-this-fic-by-telm393-because
> 
> Incidentally, I know nothing about child services or the foster care system, so there's some handwaving when it comes to that but hopefully it's not too glaring.
> 
> ALSO, A WARNING. There's a relatively brief mention/description of what could definitely be interpreted as an eating disorder (bulimia nervosa, to be exact) when Matt's thinking about his dad at one point. I don't think it's very explicit, but it's come to my attention that I should put a warning to be safe and to keep you all safe.

Matt’s sitting on the floor and he doesn’t really know what to do in this situation. He thinks that’s fair, though. He’s pretty sure none of them know what to do. He can hear everyone’s heartbeats, fast and nervous, and nobody has responded to his greeting yet, which isn’t exactly a surprise. "...Hi," he says again, uselessly.

And then Foggy’s mom says, faintly, “Hi.”

Matt nods awkwardly.

“What the hell is this, Franklin?” Foggy’s dad asks, and apparently Foggy’s name is _Franklin_ , which is an interesting fact.

“I…um…it’s…” Foggy says, and Matt winces. Foggy’s not as bad a liar as he could be, but he's not exactly a master of deception.

“I’m just a friend,” Matt says easily.

“What were you doing hiding under the bed?” Foggy’s dad asks.

“Various reasons,” Matt says. He doesn’t know how to break the news to these people that he’s been living in their house for what he’s pretty sure is an unacceptable amount of time, now. Not that secretly living in someone’s house for any amount of time is acceptable. It wasn’t all secret, though, Matt reassures himself. Foggy knew.

“Is this your boyfriend?” Foggy’s mom asks, presumably directing the question towards Foggy.

And there, right there, is an opening for a perfect lie. They can run with Matt being Foggy’s boyfriend. Unfortunately, almost before the question is over, Foggy lets out an inelegant snort of laughter, and Matt, like a complete and total idiot, lets slip an entirely inappropriate giggle. “Yes?” Matt says hopefully after they get themselves under control, but he’s pretty sure that the window of possibility for that lie working has been and gone.

“Sure,” Foggy’s dad says dryly, clearly not believing Matt's attempt to save himself. What a shame. “Seriously, what is he doing here, Foggy? What’s his duffel bag doing here?”

Foggy mother’s breath hitches with horror, and she whispers, “Please tell me there isn’t a strange kid living in your room.”

“…There isn’t?” Foggy says, and his mom lets out a noise of total bewilderment.

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know!” Foggy says. “A few days ago? A week ago?”

“A _week_?”

“He didn’t have anywhere to stay!”

“You’re keeping a homeless kid in your room?”

“Not _keeping_ , he’s not, like, a puppy, he’s just...living here for a while.”

“Without our knowledge? How old…how old are you?” Foggy’s mother asks, and it takes a while before Matt realizes the question is directed towards him because she probably knows how old Foggy is.

“Eighteen,” he says.

“No, I mean, _actually_ how old are you?”

Matt keeps his mouth shut.

“You’re Foggy’s age, aren’t you? Are you sixteen, seventeen?”

“Seventeen,” Matt says.

“You’re sixteen, great.”

“I said seventeen!”

“Yeah, but you’re lying!”

“I-I-I…” Matt starts, and then he shuts his mouth, because she’s completely right. He doesn’t know how she figured it out. 

“So,” Foggy’s dad says. “Foggy, I’m going to try to get this straight. You have a teenage runaway staying in your room.”

“He was living next to a dumpster, dad, what was I supposed to do?”

“Tell an adult, possibly? And, wait, you picked up a kid from next to a dumpster?”

“Not…exactly,” Foggy says.

“How did you two meet?”

“He…we just…met.”

“Look, Franklin, we are much less angry right now than we could be. So if you could stop lying to us, that would be great, especially since you _both_ are doing a terrible job of it.”

Matt is somewhat offended.

“Okay,” Foggy says, and Matt grimaces. “He may have climbed in through my window.”

“What.”

“Seriously, I can’t make that up.”

“You took in a teenager who climbed in through your window and presumably bled all over your carpet for whichever reason.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds really bad.”

Foggy’s dad takes a few deep, calming breaths, and Matt sits forward slightly just in case Foggy’s dad decides to attack.

Foggy's mom lets out a weirdly high-pitched sigh. “This isn’t a situation I ever thought I’d be in,” she says. “When did you completely lose your common sense, Foggy?”

“He was hurt, and he wanted to leave, and it’s freezing outside! I didn’t want him to _die_.”

“You know, that’s admirable. But I still don’t get why you wouldn’t tell us.”

“He didn’t want me to!”

Foggy’s mom makes a garbled, frustrated noise. “ _Damn it_ , that doesn’t matter! He’s sixteen!”

Matt isn’t really sure if he appreciates that everyone’s talking about him like he’s not here. One one hand, it’s annoying and reminds him of how people have been treating him like he doesn’t mind if they chat about him while he’s in the room for, oh, just his whole entire life. On the other hand, staying out of this situation might be a good idea. He needs to figure out how to sneak out of this place before Foggy’s parents call the police and take him back to St. Agnes, because it’d be a drag to have to run away again.

“I’m assuming you were the source of the nightmares?” Foggy’s dad asks, because obviously Matt just jinxed himself by thinking about how it might have been good that no one was talking to him.

“You assume correctly,” Matt says, trying to sound as dignified as possible.

“Oh, he assumes correctly,” Foggy’s mom mutters under her breath.

“And you’re probably the reason we thought Foggy was eating a ridiculous amount of food lately?”

“Most likely, yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mike,” Matt says possibly too automatically, and Foggy sighs so loudly it’s probably audible to everyone in the room, not just those with enhanced hearing.

“Your real name?” Foggy’s mom asks.

“Matt,” he mutters grudgingly.

“Okay, great. Matt, you look like you’re tired and hungry, so how about we go downstairs and talk about this?”

“I can just leave, actually,” Matt says politely. “I’ll be fine.”

“You know, I’m going to, gosh, not believe that at all. And no, you can’t leave. I am absolutely not letting a sixteen year old live on the streets. We have to figure out something to do.”

“No, it’s really not a problem,” Matt says. “I handle myself very well.”

“You’re a child.”

“I am most definitely not a child.”

“Right. We’re going downstairs. You both made this bed, you lie in it.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Matt says. “Legally, I’m pretty sure that could be kidnapping.”

“And I’m pretty sure you’re bullshitting me, so come downstairs.”

Matt growls, frustrated, and finally gives in, standing up and nodding stiffly. He can get some food here and then he can leave. What Foggy did for him was really great, but this is out of control now, and Matt doesn’t belong here. They’re going to try and send him back to St. Agnes and he knows it, but it’ll be fine. When people come to take him away he’ll just punch them and run. Unfortunately, without his cane, that might not work all that well. He’ll figure out a better plan later. For now, he’ll pretend to cooperate.

Smoothing things over is the least he can do for Foggy.

He walks purposefully out of Foggy’s room, and he knows he has to turn left to get to the stairs, so he does. He really doesn’t have an excuse for what happens after. He should have waited for someone else to go down the stairs first so that, well. So that he could actually figure out where they were. He’s not even careful about walking at all, too distracted, too stupid. He barely even registers that he doesn’t really know where the stairs are until his foot meets empty air and Foggy yells, “Matt! Stairs!”

At that point, Matt just gets confused, and his foot finally impacts with something solid, and then he tries to correct his balance and falls anyway because everything is terrible.

“Shit!” he yelps as he tumbles down all the steps with minimal grace—Stick would be so disappointed—and ends up flat on his back at the foot of the stairs, biting back a groan of pain because his already sore body is not thrilled with him for this. Instead he just lets out a pained breath.

Foggy thunders down the stairs. “Jesus, Matt, are you okay?”

Matt sucks in another breath through gritted teeth and says, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Dude, you just…what the hell? I could’ve helped you with the stairs.”

“I don’t need your help,” Matt snaps as he sits up.

“You fell.”

“I’m aware,” Matt says. “Your yelling confused me.”

“Seriously? You’re going to blame it on me?”

“I might not have fallen down the _entire flight_ if you hadn’t yelled.”

“Uh, yeah, you probably would’ve.”

This is a stupid argument and Matt’s perfectly aware of that, but he argues anyway. It’s a good stalling tactic because he _really_ doesn’t want to have any kind of conversation with Foggy’s parents.

“Matt,” Foggy’s father says slowly, like he’s trying really hard not to let frustration overtake him. “Is it possible that you’re blind?”

“No,” Matt says automatically and absurdly.

“So you just didn’t notice the stairs.”

“I’m easily distracted.”

“The sunglasses?”

“My eyes are very sensitive to light,” Matt explains, even though it’s literally the exact opposite.

“Right,” Foggy’s dad says. “He’s blind,” he informs somebody, possibly Foggy’s mom, who probably already knows. “Our son brought a blind homeless kid into our house and didn’t mention it.”

“Of course he did,” Foggy’s mother says flatly. “Okay, let’s just…talk this over. Let’s sit down at the kitchen and have a meeting with our…special guest star.”

Foggy’s mom and dad walk over to the kitchen, Matt can easily hear their footsteps, and he sighs and grudgingly asks Foggy, “Can I take your elbow?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Foggy leads Matt over to the kitchen table, and Matt kicks at a chair and then pulls it out, patting the seat and then sitting down. “Uh, hi,” he says again, uselessly.

“Hi, Matt,” Foggy’s mom says kind of pleasantly, even though she sounds like she’s pretty close to screaming. Matt feels bad about that, he really does. He doesn't mean to bother anyone, he really never does. “My name is Linda.”

“I’m Marvin,” Foggy’s father offers.

“…Okay,” Matt says.

“How long have you been homeless, Matt?” Marvin asks.

“Um,” Matt says. “Not long.”

“Oh, that’s very helpful,” Marvin says, and Matt thinks that might be sarcasm, because Matt’s trying really hard to not be helpful. “Did you…run away from your parents? Give us something.”

“I don’t have to give you anything.”

Marvin takes a deep breath. “Alrighty, then. I don’t know what else to do but call the police.”

“No!” Matt says. “Wait. Fine. I’ve been homeless for a few weeks. I left St. Agnes Orphanage.”

“Why?” Linda asks.

“There was no life for me there.”

“And there was a life for you on the streets?”

“Better than St. Agnes.”

“Why?”

Matt shrugs. “I don’t need that place. I hated it there and now they’ve got one less mouth to feed.”

“Yeah, about that, what were you eating before you got here?”

“Stuff from the trash.”

“Seriously?” Foggy asks. “Gross.”

“What did you expect? I have some money but I couldn’t actually buy anything. I mean, it’s not like I can read packages or whatever, and a kid with a cane is kind of obvious.”

Marvin sighs. He’s doing a lot of sighing. “Yeah. Did you get jumped out there?”

“What?”

“The bruise on your face.”

“I thought it had faded by now.”

“It hasn’t.”

“Yeah, I got jumped, but it’s not a big deal. I’m used to way worse.”

“You’re used to way worse?” Linda repeats slowly, and Matt shrugs again.

“Yeah. I get hurt all the time, but I can take care of myself.”

“Who’s been hurting you?”

“What? No, I’m not…I’m not being abused or anything. I’m just clumsy and I’m an easy target for the other kids. No big deal.”

“Right, of course. No big deal.”

“Look, St. Agnes wasn’t for me. I mean, I’m sixteen and blind. I’m never getting adopted, so there was no point in being there. It’s not like I’ll be able to get to college, they don’t have the money for that. I mean, even with scholarships it would be a long shot. I’m eighteen in two years, and that’s when I age out of the system and I’d end up on the streets anyway.”

“That’s a pretty defeatist view,” Linda points out.

“No, it’s not. It’s realistic. Look, it’s the Murdock tradition to die young. I wasn’t gonna spend time locked up in St. Agnes when I don’t have much time left.”

“Do you want to die?” Linda asks gently.

Matt groans. “ _No._ There’s a difference. I don’t _want_ to die, I’m just _going_ to really soon. I don’t have a life, okay. So I made an executive decision to die on the streets instead of wasting my time locked up in St. Agnes. They barely let me out. It’s…claustrophobic there.” Matt doesn’t mention the part where he wanted to use the things Stick taught him to do something good for once. He wants to go out with a bang, defending people. At least then his life will mean something, at least then God might forgive him for dragging around the Devil like he does. “And like I said,” he mumbles. “Now they’ve got one less mouth to feed, one less person to worry about.”

It’s true. Matt can take care of himself. A lot of kids at St. Agnes can’t. The nuns are probably thanking him for this, because he’s useless there, and he’s not useless on the streets. He already helped that lady before he got here. Now he doesn’t really have anything to do except spend time with Foggy, but he can tell himself that he actually is helping Foggy, who clearly doesn’t really have friends.

Matt always has to find a way to be useful. It’s the only way he can justify existing at all.

Matt knows that both Marvin and Linda want to say something, he can tell by their breath, and Foggy’s heartbeat is still quick from adrenaline or anxiety or something of the sort.

Matt just sits at the table and doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. He has no idea what these people, these adults, are going to say to him, but he’s got a basic idea. He can’t stay here, it doesn’t make any sense that they’d let him, he’s not their kid, he’s not even a kid they invited in. He’s an intruder in their home, and he’s going to end up with the police and they’re going to take him back to St. Agnes and he’s going to leave again, except this time it’ll be harder because the nuns might actually watch him more now that they know he’s still a problem child.

Linda and Marvin are quiet for a while, for too long, and it makes Matt nervous.

“Give us a second,” Linda says abruptly, and Matt realizes that she and Marvin were probably just having some kind of facial expression conversation.

They head over to the next room, talking in very quiet voices, saying things that Matt’s almost completely sure someone with normal hearing like Foggy’s won't be able to make out. Matt hunches in on himself, closes off his body language completely so hopefully Foggy will get the hint and not talk. It’s not that he doesn’t like hearing Foggy talk, he just can’t have the distraction right now. Foggy doesn’t say anything.

Matt tilts his head and zones in on the conversation.

“What the hell do we do?” Linda’s asking, voice high and agitated.

Marvin says, “Um.”

“Very helpful, Marv, I’ll take that into consideration.”

“Come on, like you know what the hell's even happening.”

“I don’t... _fuck_ …he ran away. We have to take him back. He can’t just stay here, it’s not legal. I think he’s right when he says it’s technically kidnapping.”

“I don’t know, Linda, I’m not…sure.”

“What the hell do we know about law? That’s beyond the point, anyway. The point is that we’ve got a beat-up teenage runaway in the next room who says he’s used to being hurt and that he’s made an _executive decision_ to die on the streets. Also, he’s blind.”

“Right, hadn’t noticed that.”

“Whatever, Marv. Can we really take him back to that place? I barely know the kid, but Foggy trusts him, and Foggy actually does occasionally have common sense. It’s not like him to pull shit like this, he must've done it for a reason. Anyway, I know enough from five seconds with the kid that he’s just going to run off the next chance he gets if we take him back to St. Agnes.”

“God, this is a mess.”

“True, but not helpful. We can’t take him back. We take care of kids for a living, Marvin. We can’t let one completely self-destruct. He’s smart. Somehow he managed to get away from St. Agnes, stay on the street, climb in through Foggy’s window, which, what the fuck, and then stick around for a _week_ without us noticing him. We can’t let this boy just be forgotten about. Foggy likes him. Foggy’s his _friend_. Like, when’s the last time Foggy’s had a real friend?”

“You’re right. We can’t let him slip through the cracks, and that’s what happens to kids like him at St. Agnes. I mean, we both know that place.”

“I mean, there’s no reason not to…you know.”

“Linda, that’s a really big decision, we can’t just _do_ that.”

“Why not? Isn’t that basically what we’ve been doing our whole lives? Just _doing_ shit? Dude, we eloped in Vegas. There was literally an Elvis impersonator.”

“I don’t even _like_ Elvis.”

“Don’t start, Marv. And what about Foggy? We were just planning to be foster parents, remember?”

“Of course I remember, Linda, we got registered, so on, so forth. You’re telling me things I already know.”

“I’m arguing, let me talk. We didn’t think we could have kids, we’d convinced ourselves we really didn’t want biological kids, and then, bam. Suddenly Foggy happened. And what did we do? What were your exact words when I told you I was pregnant?”

“Linda, it was a long time ago…”

“Marvin, do not tell me you don’t know, because I know you do, you’ve got an elephant’s memory. What did you say?”

“…Let’s go with it.”

“Exactly. That’s what we do. We go with it. And it works for us, doesn’t it? When we were twenty and tied the knot everyone thought we were going to get divorced in a hot minute, and it’s been seventeen years.”

“You should’ve been a lawyer, Linda.”

“Yeah, right. I should've been a butcher. Anyway, we do fine. We have the money, we’re in better financial straits than we’ve been in years. We’re registered foster parents. That boy in the next room is someone Foggy cares about enough to hide from us. Maybe it’s time for another foster kid.”

“It doesn’t work that fast.”

“Like hell it doesn’t. We’ve got contacts. We know how to play the game. Put in a call, promise Emily five hundred bucks, and he’ll be our foster child by the end of tonight.”

“I love it when you ignore the law for a higher moral purpose.”

“And I love you, but…”

“We’ve got something to do.”

“How long has it been?”

“Um…let me…five minutes. Linda, we just made a serious life decision in five minutes. Granted, it usually takes less time for us to make serious life decisions.”

“Jesus, no wonder Foggy’s so quick to act. Let’s go, let’s tell them.”

Matt lets his focus slip just enough to take in the rest of the world. His chest is tight and he’s confused, beyond confused. This isn’t how things work. He must be understanding things incorrectly, because there’s no way there’s people like these in the world. He really thought Foggy was an outlier, an anomaly.

“You’re staying with us,” Linda announces grandly, trying to sound breezy. Matt can still hear the tightness in her voice.

His jaw goes slack.

“No _way_ ,” Foggy says, speaking for both of them.

“Well, we figured you must have made this _very stupid choice_ for a reason,” Marvin says. “And, Matt, we weren’t about to kick you out.”

“Why not?” Matt asks suspiciously. “You have absolutely every reason to. I don’t need your help, it’s fine. I’ll be okay.”

“Matt, gift horses, mouths!” Foggy hisses loudly.

“I can’t impose,” Matt says stubbornly. “Call St. Agnes.”

“Right, and then let you run away again and, what? Find another house to climb into? Hate to say it, kid, but that’s a good way to get shot,” Linda points out.

“I won’t climb in through any windows this time,” Matt says. “I’ll just leave everyone else alone.”

“And live on the streets instead,” Marvin says. “We’ve got a problem with that. As parents and as humans.”

“Yeah, but you’re not my parents. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Matt, what the hell?” Foggy asks. “You’re my friend! Why are you playing bad cop at _yourself_?”

Matt crosses his arms over his chest. “You don’t need me here.”

“What if I want you here?” Foggy asks loudly. “What about that?”

Matt grinds his teeth together and shakes his head slowly. “I don’t…I…I…”

He shuts up because like hell he’s going to start stuttering in front of these people.

“Matt,” Marvin says. “We can help you. We want to help you.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“If we are, then it’s a mistake that benefits _you_ , so what’s the big deal? You seem like a pragmatic type, Matt. You should realize that the most practical thing you can do is stay here, with a roof over your head. You’re the one who said you don’t really want to die on the streets. You have a chance to live here, Matt. I suggest you take it.”

“Foster homes are transient,” Matt says. _When you realize I’m not good enough for you you’ll just send me back._

“I don’t know,” Linda says. “You’re the one who said you only had two years until you aged out of the system. That transient enough for you?”

“People don’t do this,” Matt says.

“Well, then welcome to the home of people who don’t exist,” Linda says, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Matt grinds his teeth harder, until his jaw hurts, and he knows he can’t refuse this. He’s not stupid. He _is_ pragmatic. This is an opportunity that he can’t give up, especially since Foggy’s here and Matt _likes_ Foggy and it wouldn’t be so bad to spend more time with him, and it would be kind of nice if he could move around the house.

He won’t have to deal much with the Nelson parents. They seem like good people, he guesses, nice enough people to let him hang around for a bit as long as he isn’t too much trouble, and he knows how to not be too much trouble, how to take care of himself.

He shifts in his seat, wincing as he realizes that a cut on his hip reopened when he fell down the stairs. He can feel it leaking blood and it smells weird, worse than the other ones. Might be getting infected, but he’ll just wash it and it’ll be fine. Ugh, he hadn’t really noticed that one with all the other injuries. It doesn’t hurt anyway, he decides. It doesn’t hurt at all.

Matt grips the sides of his chair to keep from rocking back and forth and nods. “Thank you,” he grinds out. He means it, and truth drips from each word, but his pride burns as he swallows it down.

+

The day after Foggy’s parents find out about him, Matt wakes up from uncomfortable dreams—at least he can’t remember them—and feels completely lost. He’s less secure here, now. He doesn’t trust adults, and he doesn’t trust them for a reason. After his dad, none of them have ever been particularly helpful towards him. They hurt him and they leave him and they smother him and they  _use_ him.

Last night he heard Linda on the phone, arguing with somebody. He could hear that somebody too, saying the Nelsons were deciding on this too fast and _this isn't how the system works anyway_.

Linda insisted that they’d thought about it for a long time even though Matt knows that’s not true. He overheard the entire conversation that she and Marvin had, after all. He never thought that adults could make important decisions as quickly as him. He should be grateful for that, though, he reminds himself. At least he has Foggy here. Foggy’s a safe person, Matt is as sure of that as he’s ever been sure of anything.

He fell asleep to the sound of Linda arguing and eventually bribing whoever it was on the other side of the phone, which is honestly just another thing for him to add to all of the ways he knows the system is broken. He feels strange that Linda and Marvin have let him into their lives so easily, and he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Linda and Marvin go up to Foggy’s room after Foggy’s gone to school, after Foggy’s woken up Matt to tell him where he's going to be and promised to come home right after and that everything’s going to be great, and they reassure Matt that he won’t have to go back to St. Agnes, not even for a short time while they get the paperwork in order, they’ll just do that while he stays here.

Matt just nods slowly and doesn’t know what to say, because he’s not actually reassured. He knows how this is going to go. These are nice people who are going to keep him around for as long as they can deal with him, and then they’re going to kick him out when they realize that he’s not something they want in their lives. When they realize that he’s a problem child, that he’s too much work for a kid they don’t even know. He knows that even Foggy will get tired of him soon, which is a painful thought, but he knows how things work in the real world.

This is not the real world. This is a house, a family, this is insulated. They won’t appreciate the real world coming into this place in the form of a teenage boy.

Marvin says that Matt should come downstairs and eat something. Foggy’s not here, though, and Matt doesn’t really want to be around the Nelson parents too much. He knows that if they get to know him too much they’ll realize he’s not worth it, and he wants to put that off as long as he can because there’s a small, shameful part of him that’s kind of happy he’s here, in this almost safe place. The Nelsons have never hit Foggy, they haven’t yelled much and when they did it was for an admittedly good reason, they haven’t tried to get physical with Matt, they’re better than so many other foster families he’s heard of and he’s not on the streets and not in the orphanage. He needs to drag this out as long as possible because this is probably the last time he’ll ever even be in close quarters with a family of people who actually seem to love each other.

Marvin and Linda say that they love each other, Matt's heard them, and their heartbeats are steady when they say it. Matt feels a tug at his chest at that thought, because his dad never had that. His mom left so early on that Matt never heard his dad tell anyone he loved them like that. Matt’s dad said he loved Matt, of course, but that was different. His dad never said _I love you_ to someone he was actually in love with in Matt's lifetime, not as far as Matt knows. Matt wonders if his mom and dad ever loved each other at all or if they never really did and that’s why his mom was so quick to abandon them. Matt knows that it was his fault, that something happened that made his mother not want him. He’s got the Devil inside of him, he read it in a letter his mother must have left behind, a letter from his grandmother, his maternal grandmother, a woman he never met, a letter that he found when he was seven years old warning his mother off of her husband and son. The Murdock boys, they've got the Devil in them.

Matt’s got the Devil in him, he knows it, he’s always known it, that letter just gave the coiled evil inside of him a name. Sure, his dad had the same thing, Matt remembers, but maybe when his dad’s soul escaped him Matt got his Devil too, maybe it found its way into Matt through Matt’s fingers as he ran them over the cooling skin of his father’s face.

Matt misses his dad.

(It’s been five years.)

Matt’s drifted, he can tell because Marvin’s saying his name insistently, in the way that means he’s said it before and Matt hadn’t caught it. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Seriously, come down to eat something. You can’t subsist on…what have you been subsisting on?”

“I don’t remember,” Matt says, and he’s being honest. He’s not very good at remembering things like that, unimportant things.

“Well. Come downstairs, kid. We’ll get you some eggs or something.”

Matt hates eggs but he can’t say that, can’t tell them that eggs usually make him throw up. He can eat omelets at least, but he doesn’t want to say that because omelets take a long time to make and Matt used to be able to make them but he isn’t sure he remembers how to cook at all, if that’s one of the skills he’s lost over the years. He knows he used to cook for himself and his dad, but that was a while ago.

(One, two, three, four, five years.)

So Matt nods and smiles, it’s fake but he’s really good at faking, he thinks, grabs his cane and pushes his glasses up his nose and stands up, swaying just a little as he gets lightheaded. He hopes Marvin hasn’t noticed. Linda left the room a little while ago, mumbled something about going downstairs to get something ready. She’s opened the fridge door and is rummaging through whatever’s in there.

Matt remembers the fridge at his and his dad’s house. There usually wasn’t much in it. Matt did the grocery shopping before he went blind, but after the accident the grocery store just confused him and freaked him out even more than it used to. Matt’s always had sensitive hearing, he’s always just been sensitive in general, but after what the radiation did to him (Matt’s pretty sure it’s the radiation that heightened his senses, it’s not far-fetched in a world that includes the Super Soldier Serum) going outside too much had become unbearable, especially for a kid who’d never been all that big on going outside.

So he’d had to wait for his dad to grocery shop, and his dad, bless his immortal soul, forgot a lot of the time. He always ate weird, is the thing. Matt's dad had this tendency to forget to eat for too much time and then buy a bunch of food and eat most of it, but he always made sure he bought stuff for Matt when he remembered to get groceries at all, bland stuff that was as healthy as possible on the budget they were on. Matt’s always liked bland food more than stuff with too much flavor, the processed food his dad would eat until he made himself sick, and his dad always remembered that.

He knew. He knew Matt better than anyone has ever known him.

(Five years, it’s been five years. God, make it stop hurting. _Please._ )

Matt leaves the room, finally using his cane. It’s comfortable and it’s a relief to be able to get around normally again. He’s careful with the stairs this time.

“Would you like to take my elbow?” Marvin asks as Matt carefully feels out where the stairs are.

It would make things easier, but Matt shakes his head stubbornly. He doesn’t need help.

“Okay, the first step’s pretty close now.”

Matt manages to get down the stairs perfectly well, he doesn’t even trip once. He smells something weird, something that he’s definitely smelled before, weird and sharp and foul. He puts the thought out of his mind—he’s probably smelling something from outside—as his sense of smell is mostly taken over with everything in the kitchen.

He shakes his head, wills himself to not get overwhelmed by the unfamiliar stimuli, and focuses on his breathing instead. He feels for a chair but doesn’t sit down. “Do you need help with anything?” he asks.

“No thanks, I’m good,” Linda says. “Do you like eggs?”

“Yeah, I’ll eat eggs,” Matt says even though that wasn’t really the question.

“Uh-huh. How about yogurt with granola? We’ve got plain yogurt, strawberry yogurt, blueberry yogurt, and granola without nuts.”

Matt feels relieved at that. “If it’s not too much trouble, I could have the plain yogurt with granola.”

“Not too much trouble at all! Coming right up. You need to eat, you’re mostly muscle, aren’t you? There a gym at St. Agnes?”

“I…” Matt starts, but he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes it’s best to just stay silent and hope no one notices. He sits down.

Linda doesn’t say anything until she puts a bowl in front of Matt. Matt tries to sniff it as subtly as he can, making sure nothing’s off. It’s fine, so he pats the table until he finds a spoon and carefully takes a bite of the yogurt. He swallows and realizes that he’s genuinely starving, that’s why he’s been lightheaded all the time and why his stomach’s been twisting and hurting and burning all the time. He’s gotten so used to hunger that he barely even notices it anymore, but he really should remember to eat, especially now that he has access to food for the time being.

“Before you ran away, did you go to school?” Linda asks bluntly.

Matt’s careful not to choke in surprise on the spoonful of yogurt he’s got in his mouth at that question. He swallows, the heavy shame that settles over him when he thinks about school blanketing him again. “Y-yeah,” he mutters, putting down his spoon. He doesn’t want to eat anymore. “High school. Not the one that Foggy goes to, I went to the one at St. Agnes. The one for the kids who lived there, not the private one. It wasn’t great, but there were s-some, some, some good teachers. Nuns, you know.”

“Right. So you dropped out?”

“Yes. A week before I left. I wanted to cut ties with everything. Nobody noticed. The school wasn't good for me anyway. There weren’t, weren’t many accommodations. The screen readers were sh—um, didn’t work well.”

“And Braille books?”

Matt chuckles, but it comes out humorless. “Do you know how much those cost? And how big they are? Screen readers are way more practical.”

“Right.”

“I got good grades, though,” Matt says. “I’ve always been a good student. My dad thought it was important. Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t…he wanted me to not turn out like him.”

“How’d he turn out?” Linda asks gently.

“He died,” Matt says shortly.

“I’m sorry.”

(Five years.)

Matt shrugs. “It’s been a while.”

“Would you like to go back to school?”

Matt blinks in surprise. “What?”

“Foggy’s school isn't half bad. In academics, at least. And I bet they have more accommodations since they’ve got more money. I mean, you’d probably have to wait awhile to start, until you get settled here and…” Linda pauses, like she’s trying to find the right words. “And become emotionally ready to go back.”

Matt raises his eyebrows. _Emotionally ready._

He used to get called emotionally disturbed at the orphanage until he learned to control his senses and just shut his mouth and became the good little resident they wanted him to be. He never even got in trouble for fighting after that. Nobody knew that it was him who occasionally cornered jerks in the halls and threatened to fucking end them if they ever touched one of the little kids again. He always wore a ski mask, like a robber or something.

“I didn’t think I’d be staying long enough to go to a new school,” Matt says, because clearly he’s not going to be able to draw this out as long as he thought, not when these people seem to think he’s staying with them for much longer than they’re going to end up being okay with.

“Why not? We’ve got you for the next couple of years. I’ve seen your files, you only just turned sixteen.”

Matt smiles as gently as he can. “Look, this is very kind of you, but you’re going to see that I’m not worth this. You don’t want me around.”

Linda breathes in sharply, like something’s bothered her. Matt guesses she really didn’t realize how this is going to go. “Look, kid, don’t tell me what I want and what I don’t want. I do want you around. _We_ want you around. There’s a reason you’re here and that Marvin and I are registered foster parents.”

Matt’s not a kid. He hasn’t been a kid for a long time.

(It’s been five years. Sometimes it feels like forever ago, sometimes it feels like a week ago.)

“I don’t understand why you’d want me around,” Matt says.

“We want you around because you’re Foggy’s friend and, more than that, because you’re a sixteen year old who needs help and we have space for you. In our house and in our lives. I hate to burst your bubble, buddy, but you’re sticking around.”

Matt sighs.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Linda asks.

Matt doesn’t answer. He just stays still and quiet.

“You don’t have to,” Linda says. “We’ll show you what the Nelsons are made of.”

(Matt doesn't believe her, doesn't have faith in her. He used to have faith in somebody.

It's been five years.)


End file.
